


Tangible

by hamlet



Category: Biohazard | Resident Evil, Resident Evil - All Media Types
Genre: Dubious Consent, M/M, Non-Graphic Violence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-10-11
Updated: 2011-10-11
Packaged: 2017-10-24 13:06:09
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,199
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/263818
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hamlet/pseuds/hamlet
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>He’s on his hands and knees on the floor of his and Chris’ apartment, Chris’ huge, panicked brown eyes right in front of his face, hand hovering over Wesker’s shoulder but not touching, as if Chris does not know if he’s allowed to. (Post-RE5 AU-ish.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	Tangible

It’s been months since the volcano destroyed Ouroboros, months since his regenerative abilities restored his body to its human form, months since his medication regimen has been trimmed down from what felt like a toxic concoction of daily torture to just a few pills, and yet the fits still did not quite refuse to go away.

It’s the little things that always set Wesker off. This time, an innocent, gentle gusting of Chris’ fingers on the back of his neck, and Wesker is five years old, curled in on himself in a chair in Spencer’s ice-cold laboratory, eyes cast down to avoid looking at the syringe sitting on the bench-top, glistening eerily in the lab’s too-bright artificial light. One of Spencer’s hands is at the back of Wesker’s neck, carelessly stroking the short, delicate hairs there in a half-hearted attempt to keep the boy calm, while his other roughly uncurls one of Wesker’s trembling tiny hands from the arm of the chair. It’s a blur from there on, a flurry of movement, but in an instant Wesker is on his knees on the ice cold floor, deafened by his own pained screams as his body tries to fight off the virus and loses.

Someone is calling his name but the sound is distant, muffled, as if coming through a tunnel of cotton somewhere far, far away. Wesker slides his eyelids open just a crack as soon as the pain lessens a fraction. He’s on his hands and knees on the floor of his and Chris’ apartment, Chris’ huge, panicked brown eyes right in front of his face, hand hovering over Wesker’s shoulder but not touching, as if Chris does not know if he’s allowed to. Wesker’s head is spinning and he lost his glasses at some point – prescription this time – and the vertigo, combined with the blurry vision, makes his stomach twist violently. He closes his eyes in an attempt to lessen the nausea and tries to relax his posture. Chris takes it as permission to offer comfort and places his hand carefully on Wesker’s shoulder, but as soon as it makes contact, it’s no longer Chris’ large, warm hand gently caressing him, but Spencer’s cold, bony one, crushing his shoulder in a vice-like grip.

Wesker’s eyes fly open, he fights the illusion and using all his strength propels himself forward, pushing himself against Chris and crashing their lips together. It’s not a delicate kiss by any means: Wesker is all tongue and teeth, and Chris isn’t kissing back, but gentleness is the last thing on Wesker’s mind as he attacks Chris’ mouth, using Chris as a feeble attempt to anchor himself to reality. It doesn’t quite work, and Chris’ hands, which are gently trying to hold him back, still feel unnaturally cold and bony, all too familiar and not in a good way.

Then he’s back at the lab, those icy, unwelcoming fingers slipping beneath his shirt, gusting over the bruises forming on his body after the injection, mapping out the places from which the Ouroboros tendrils would protrude once the virus matures. Then the fingers are on his face, stroking his cheeks and it’s vile; Wesker screams and shakes his head violently, his forehead slamming into something. The pain from the impact clears his vision for a moment and he sees Chris’ terrified eyes before him once again, instead of Spencer’s lifeless ones. They’re still on the floor in the living room, Wesker sitting awkwardly in Chris’ lap, one of Chris’s hands on Wesker’s shoulder, the other rubbing the side of his own face with which Wesker’s forehead collided just mere moments ago.

Wesker snarls, the horrible nightmare still pricking at the back of his mind. He needs to find a way to loosen its hold on him, he has to get away. Without stopping to think, Wesker plunges a hand down the front of Chris’ pants, desperately working his cock, but to no avail. Chris is too panicked and freaked out to register the touch; everything is a messy blur which Chris’ mind cannot even begin to process, and sex is the last thing on his mind. Wesker’s hand trembles in desperation and he lets out something that sounds like a choked sob as he gives up, yanks his hand out of the other man’s pants and starts tearing at his own clothes. He climbs out of Chris’ lap for all of twenty seconds that it takes him to discard his pants, and then he’s back, desperately pressing himself against Chris’ thigh before Chris can even blink. Snapping out of his stupor, Chris firmly places his hands on Wesker’s waist, fully intent on taking control of the situation which has gone terribly out of hand, but Wesker’s faster: with inhuman strength that he no longer should possess, Wesker uses one hand to pin both of Chris’ between their bodies, reaches around behind himself with his free hand and pushes three fingers inside, dry and rough.

It hurts. The pain is blinding white hot behind his eyelids and Wesker is lost to the world as his fingers roughly move in and out of his body, hips moving in similar broken motions against Chris’ leg, but with no coordination. Someone is calling his name, but he can no longer differentiate between Chris and Spencer, then his ears are ringing and there is no other sensation but pain; he’s surrounded by it, it tears at him until he sees nothing but white, and then everything stops.

Awareness returns to Wesker slowly. It feels like hours have passed, but his breaths still come out in too-fast pants and he feels lightheaded. He opens his eyes to find his head pillowed against Chris’ neck, and a telltale wet stain on the leg of Chris’ pants, right near where Wesker’s crotch rests. His hand is still buried deep inside him, and Wesker pulls it out slowly, mindful of how much it hurts, numbly staring at the blood that’s coating his fingers, not registering it as his own. He drags his eyes back up to Chris’. Chris looks a mix of concern, shock and hurt, and Wesker casts his eyes down, unable to hold his partner’s gaze. He should feel like the biggest jerk in the world right now for using Chris like that, but instead he feels nothing.

It’s a long moment of tense, heavy silence and Wesker is counting the cracks in the hardwood floor when Chris sighs heavily, then brings his hand up and wipes at Wesker’s cheek. There is moisture spread about his face, and Wesker tries to recall himself crying, but cannot. Slowly, carefully, Chris slides Wesker out of his lap and pulls both of them up to their feet. Wesker’s knees feel like jelly; everything hurts and he struggles to remain upright as Chris leads him slowly into the bathroom and turns on the shower. As he watches the other man fiddle with the water temperature, Wesker numbly wonders how long he has left. How long until Chris gets sick of him and throws him out, how long until he has lost everything he had, and how long until he’s all alone with nothing but his nightmares.


End file.
